16 Seconds and Counting
by caylender
Summary: There will be time, he thinks, but then again, he could be wrong... Just a one shot on Wally's thoughts about time during the Endgame episode. Please R&R.


So this is my first Young Justice fic; I've been creeping around for quite a while but just finally found the incentive to post something. (And the incentive was to procrastinate for my American Literature essay! Yay!) I was really inspired by the modernist stream-of-conscious style and T.S. Elliot; I hope that's visible in here...

Disclaimer: DC owns Wally, even if they're not doing anything with him...

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16 seconds and counting

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Throughout his life, time always past so slowly, like an impertinent child at bedtime, dragging his feet on the way to bed and attempting to stretch the moments to their fullest extent. And that's time: fingers reaching above head and feet bending downwards with toes pointing down even further, rivaling a ballerina on point. The seconds would be stretched so fully that they seemed to cramp, wincing in pain and cursing dehydration. At these times, time stood stationary for him as he desperately pled with the circular wall clock whose hand was outstretched but unwilling to hit the twelve. But then again, that summarized his existence: perpetually poised at the verge of hitting twelve but always failing to reach it…

Time was that intangible entity that cursed him. It was plentiful, overabundant even. He could always assure himself that _there would be time_. _And there would be time _**in each moment**_. _**In each moment**, he could spend plotting and theorizing. He could contemplate dozens of philosophical quandaries **in a moment**. He could create dozens of plans of attack **in a moment**, and **in the moment** that followed, he could discover any flaw and weakness of his brainstorming. All of these visions and even revisions of his visions were possible **in a moment**.

Time could also be agonizing. Time tottered tentatively with him presiding over the sadistically slow speed. But it was only him. Everyone else wonders, 'where does the time go?' while he can account for each and every second.

In Spanish, they say that time marches; their viewpoint portrays time as steady, consistent, and efficient. In English, time is said to run; people can't keep track of time, and they mourn for lost time. For him, time staggers: slow, cautious - like an elderly lady, painstakingly pushing her walker forward - fast in her own way but unbearably slow for the teenager behind her.

Time is like a girlfriend, he thinks. While he's ready and anxious to leave, she meticulously prepares, changing her mind on what shoes to wear three times and not entirely caring that he has been ready to go for what seems like forever.

And although time is too slow for him, there are moments, which he wants to suspend to make them last even longer. An obvious one is when he kisses the love of his life with the Eiffel Tower, looming over them. Another, he pictures her: legs deliciously bare, wearing one of his old T-shirts as she leads him playfully by the hand to the bedroom; her long blond hair cascading down her back and strands of it fall into her face as she glances back at him over her shoulder…

He had died once. There was a countdown then, too, but it was different. It wasn't real, but it felt like it. He hadn't had enough time or any practical way out of the situation, so he stayed with his best friend, waiting to explode. As the timer neared zero, he didn't even have his Spitfire to ground him…

_There will be time_, he would think as he abandoned science projects - brilliant experiments that could earn him a Nobel Prize if they weren't scattered across his bedroom floor, collecting dust; all they needed was a little tinkering and some of his time. _There will be time,_ he would think as he ignored his cell phone when his mother called him to make sure that her little man was eating enough while at school. _There will be time_, he thought as he wished to disappear in Artemis's kiss, commiserating months of lost time while she had worked to save the world. In this kiss, he took for granted the time the future promises, where he would revisit this moment in Paris with her in his arms. However, the future is a conman, and time is his mistress. On one hand, he makes you believe that, **there will be time**, and you believe him, neglecting issues that ARE IMPORTANT and YOU WILL REGRET. And Time cruelly snatches opportunities from you whenever the opportunities arise for her. He hadn't realized that for him, time would putter to a stop. For him, there wouldn't be time enough.

And although, he's had an antagonistic relationship with time - always too slow, always too consistent for an impulsive youth, he has grown to grudgingly respect time. That's normal though, you should respect your enemies. And because of this new, insightful alliance he would have hoped for more.

More what?

More time?

More substance?

More forewarning?

He doesn't know, just more. It's because he realizes that 16 seconds isn't as long as he thought it was. It used to be an eternity - a lifetime. The irony hits him as forcefully as the bolts of discarded energy.

He asks for a lifetime in the span of 16 seconds.

But time, future's cruel mistress, grants him only 15 seconds and counting down… 14 seconds…

And in the end, these 16 seconds - well, less now - aren't enough. They could never be enough. He wants to grow old with his Spitfire. He wants enough time to meet his children and his grandchildren and his great-grandchildren. He wants to be like Kent Nelson, to have more than a lifetime. But he had always had enough time. Time enough for thousands of visions and revisions of those visions, but now he doesn't even have enough time to finish his sent-

"Just tell them-"

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I would love some reviews. 'Tis my first YJ fic and all.


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